


you'll be in my heart

by Mariss95



Series: In another life [12]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, a more realistic take on the disney classic, felicity as oliver's jane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-09 13:30:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4350608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mariss95/pseuds/Mariss95
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tarzan(ish) AU.<br/>What happens when Felicity Smoak stumbles upon a mystery she feels incredibly drawn to?</p>
            </blockquote>





	you'll be in my heart

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the arrow summer movie au challenge, animation week.
> 
> I know, this AU sounds odd, but bear with me, it's a more realistic adaptation of the stranger trope, without talking animals. But basically a testament to how deep I'm into the olicity rabbit hole that even films from my childhood inspire stories of them.
> 
> Knowledge of the movie plot is not necessary to understand this story though.
> 
>  
> 
> _Hope you guys like it!_

Felicity Meghan Smoak likes facts, and science. She prides herself in her ability to rationalize life, get answers for the mysteries that haunt her. And right now she’s facing the biggest one of her life.

And well, not only because said mystery is a ginormous man who wills her to look  _way_  upwards to meet his eyes; his hauntingly beautiful, hypnotizing eyes, cobalt blue and deep, tainted with secrets and worry.

But also because said man wasn’t in their plans when she’d agreed to tag along with Dig in his overseas mission. She was here to assess the lost tech, if found, and work as a mediator were they to encounter foul play.

And well… the last word that comes to mind when looking up at this man is  _foul_.

Because yes, he  _is_  dirty, wearing ragged clothes, and  _is that dry blood on his arm?_

But most of all he’s handsome; even under the heavily out-grown hair, his features are undeniable, and the scrap of cloth that makes up his hooded shirt does little to conceal his imposing form.

Which should be intimidating and scary. Especially since she has just stumbled onto him in the middle of the forest. 

Well, not quite stumbled as much as he full-on collided with her, throwing her to the ground and therefore, to safety, as she’d just accidentally triggered a pressure-activated land-mine, as you do.

It all went down in a flash.

A soft click from under her foot, followed by a hushed ‘ _oh frack_ ’ from her at the realisation of what was happening.   
A yelp pushing past her lips at suddenly being lifted then thrown back into the ground, land-mine-free ground thankfully, with a hefty weight on top of her.   
A hefty, warm pack of muscle in the form of a man who stared wide-eyed at her own bewildered self before realising distance would be safer.

Which he put promptly, by sliding the hand wrapped around her waist away, jumping to this feet without catching his breath –as if he hadn’t just catapulted from somewhere up-high and literally swept her off her feet–, before retreating to the row of trees outlining this clearing.

With shaky feet, she’d stood up then, frantic eyes taking in every micro-surprised happened in the last ten seconds. The cloud of smoke from the freshly detonated explosive set before her, clouding the silhouette of her hooded hero behind it. 

A step backwards followed another until her back firmly pressed against something solid; a different, colder something from the solid bulk of his body on top of hers. A tree, safety; or at least that’s what she should be feeling.

Then  _why are the prime feelings overtaking her body surprise and curiosity?_ Why hasn’t she taken off running in the opposite direction, or shouted for help at the top of her lungs?

Sure, her heeled boots can’t get her that far, especially since he’s clearly far more athletic than her and could easily overtake her physically were that his intent. She still could shout for Dig, yet for once her lips are sown shut… well not _literally,_  of course, but as effectively shut as they’ve ever been.

As time suspends between them, both frozen in spot and in some kind of staring contest, she weights her reasons:

He is unexpected and a possible threat, having come out of nowhere and then, just as suddenly as he was on her, retreated back into the shadows silent as a ninja, eyes narrowed as he looked her over. Yet his right hand had barely twitched and not reached out to the quiver she could now clearly see strapped to his back. Instead he’d noticeably stilled and assessed her silently.

He’s surely deadly: his body is coiled with tension, ready to pounce at the first sign of danger, as he has clearly shown when it came to getting blown up. The way he’s holding his body is almost animalistic, feral, which strangely fills her with amazement instead of fear.

He did just brought her to safety though, when he could’ve easily left her to get turned into pieces all on her own; yet maybe he wanted to avoid her calling out to others?

Still, even now as he could take her out, clearly in sight and still visibly shaken, he hasn’t shot first, asked later. Instead he’s making up his mind about her, trying to figure out under which category she falls.

Which reminds her of her best tool (besides a laptop with reliable internet connection):  _words_.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, Felicity feels comfort with the presence of the huge tree trunk against her back. Were him to shoot, could she hide behind it fast enough?

 _Not a good train of thought, Smoak! Focus on **not**  getting shot at_.

Taking a deep breath, and solace in all the facts just established in her mind about him and his supposed will not to harm her, she parts her lips to cautiously voice actual words, at last.

“I mean no harm… that makes it sound like you’re an alien or something, which I’m sure you’re not… pretty sure, just weird, for society’s rules!  _I_ am not judging… though a shower should be go for you–”

She’s almost regretting the speaking again part, since once she starts apparently there’s not stopping her verbal gaffes, when she notices his body relax slightly, surely assessing her babbling self under the not-immediately-deadly kind. Yet the thought doesn’t relax him completely, as once he finally opens his mouth he’s shouting with utmost authority.

“What do you want?!”

 _Woah_. He has a rough voice, laced with danger, almost growly in nature, which would help with the intimidation technique were she not distracted by a more poignant matter.

“Oh… you speak english! Great, that makes this easier. And all this time I thought you were this big, wild, quiet, silent, person-thing!” Hi! I’m–,” she takes a step towards him, halting suddenly as he visibly flinches and leans backwards at her movement.

“Oh, sorry. I… I’ll stay right here,” she offers, trying to make him feel as at peace as possible which, by the looks of it, is far from his default mode. He looks guarded, damaged, yet there’s a glimmer of hope in the way his breathing evens out as a newfound silence settles over them, in the ghost of a smile he allowed to show for a second there as she babbled about him.

And so she decided that, as much as caution is always necessary, she doesn’t feel afraid in his company. Which is saying a lot considering he’s holding a freaking bow in those manly hands of his.

At last Felicity takes another breath, this time of resolution, and parts from the tree, hesitantly taking a step forward.

Which doesn’t work as well as a sudden twinge in her ankle brings her to her knees, a cry of pain leaving her lips.

He’s by her side in a heartbeat.

Bow discarded, he reaches out a hand to take her weight off of the injured leg. It falls easily to her side like before, and she mindlessly leans on his chest for support. A shiver runs through him from her touch, yet he tries to conceal it, working himself back to normal as he drops to his knee and inspects the cause of this second damsel moment.

“Sprained,” Felicity hears him mumble with a great deal of worry for a man who tried to intimidate her not two minutes ago.

“Frack. I’m not good at falling.”

And there’s that hint of a smile again, lightening his features. It’s fickle and wavering, like every instinct in his book is fighting the way he’s reacting to her. And maybe it’s the mystery solving part of her self at play, but she damn well wants to know what’s hiding behind that. 

Because right now she’s all kinds of confused. The only thing crystal clear so far are actions.

“Thank you,” she offers them softly, a gentle smile on her lips as he looks up at her in shock, “for saving my life, I mean. I would’ve been falling to the floor in more than one piece if it weren’t for you.”

His startling nature soon gives way to a myriad of emotions he seems to find foreign: confusion, surprise, relief, friendliness.

She gets lost in the intensity of his gaze, simply following his movement as he stands up again to his towering height, never breaking eye contact. Her hand that had laid on his shoulder for support has drifted back to his chest once more, laying flat over his wildly beating heart.

“So  _thank you_ …,” she breathes, uncharacteristically failing with words.

“ _Oliver_ ,” he whispers in response, effectively shaking her even more with the softness of his voice.

“Felicity.”

“ _Felicity_ …,” he repeats like in a daze, savouring each syllable and making her name sound like the best thing she’s ever heard. Maybe it’s because of the near-death experience, or because the way he says it carries much more meaning than it should have: relief, wonder, excitement.

It’s a moment suspended in time, one she can’t really rationalise or even intends to since getting lost in the pull Oliver has on her feels so much better. Instead she lingers, lets her eyes travel down the planes of his face, down to her hand still on his chest; their sole point of contact, which is insane considering she feels like her skin is on fire and electricity is bursting through her veins.

His eyes roam down her form as well, cataloguing information of his own, for if he’s a mystery to her, she surely is an unexpected one for him as well.

There’s that spark of curiosity, of understanding beyond reason when their eyes meet again. There’s no fear or wariness between them just now, which gives her just the right push to untape her mouth.

But upon landing on her swollen ankle she had yelped.

Loudly.

So, as luck would have it, a second knight in shinning armour comes to her rescue.

“Felicity?,” a worried Diggle calls upon edging the tree line in sight, wild eyes scanning the clearing searching for the cause of her cry. Invisible alarms go blasting as his eyes meet hers, or more importantly, when he finally spots a foreign, very imposing man hovering before her.

“Wait!,” she tries to yell and move forward to halt what she knows could be a disastrous situation, totally forgetting her injury and so ending her call for a truce in a grimace of pain that all but doubles the warming bells in Dig’s mind.

Once again the scene unfolds in a split second.

On instinct, Oliver reaches for her as she doubles in the spot. Totally reading the signals wrong –or much more rationally than she’s been able to do so far–, Diggle unholsters his gun and points it straight at Oliver’s chest; motion he instantly retaliates by snatching an arrow from his quiver faster than she can blink, and aiming it with utmost accuracy.

Both are frozen, time is stilled once again, but with a very different charged tension in the air. That’s enough to drive her back to action.

“Stop!,” she snaps using her loud voice and stepping much closer to their target line than either men would like. Yet only so much of their attention is on her, otherwise they’re busy being coiled like stray cats, daring each other to move.

“Dig, look at me,” she pleads softening her tone, getting the expected results. “ _This_  is Oliver,” she offers trying to establish some normalcy into this nonsense. “He is… okay I don’t know who he is just  _yet_ , or what’s he’s doing in this seemingly deserted island; but point is he’s good.”

The two mean seem slightly taken aback by the sheer certainty of her words –in all honesty, she is as well–. Taking advantage of this moment of halt to their pissing contest, Felicity calls Diggle’s attention to the very obvious hole in the ground between them, a fog of smoke still thin in the air.

“Pressure bomb,” he asserts putting the noises he heard back together.

“Yes. One Oliver here very valiantly got me out of with his ninja skills. Actually I’m still not sure if they’re ninja ones or any other kind, but still, impressive.  _And_  commendable,” she adds, turning to the almost baffled figure behind her.

Dig takes the scene in with more detail, eyes straying over the clearing and her, the swollen ankle he’s surely piecing together as a consequence of the fall, and finally falling back to Oliver. Dig’s posture is still stiff, showing his training, but there’s a wonderful show of gratitude in the deep breath he takes and the slight nod he directs in Oliver’s way; one he swiftly returns, showing the same shade of emotions.

“Great,” she chirps too animately for someone in this situation, then takes the final purposeful step to their line of sight so both their weapons are aimed at her. A sense of pride fills her being when both men tense further then relax their fighting stances slightly at this move. “Now that that’s settled, why don’t you two boys stop the growly act so we can figure this out more safely?”

Both soon relent power and put away their weapons, making it even better. Dig seems amused by her, as usual, though still a hint of warming remains in the way he’s holding himself.

“Okay, back to the camp it is then,” she adds lastly thinking the safe ground will make this easier.

Yet once she turns to Oliver, his body language tells a whole different story.

The feral stance is back, tension overtaking his being at the idea of going with them, surrendering complete power, answering questions.

“No,” he supplies, sounding equal parts scared and defensive. Felicity can already see him slowly retreating back to that growly self, imagine him daring back into the shadows of this land and losing their track forever.

Letting go could be easy, much easier than trying to figure  _all_  of this up. Yet mysteries bug her… and yes, that’s the excuse she’s going with this time.

So before he can move backwards she turns her back to Dig, fully facing Oliver and commanding his gaze be on her. She doesn’t even have to voice that thought for him to comply. The same shade of emotions play there, yet there’s a softening of the lines of his face at the calmness in hers.

“Hey,” she breathes just for them to hear, a hand somehow finding its way back to his chest. “It’s okay, we just want to talk. Get to know each other maybe… ugh sorry, this is sounding totally like I’m asking you out, which I’m not, right now–”

The breathy chuckle he barely has time to refrain halts her babbling this time, settling the now familiar warmth she connects with him over her.

“Just come back with us, with me, please. We have food and shelter… and a shower, kinda.” His lips curve upwards in his most expressive smile yet, which she counts as a win. Still the doubt and caution remains in his eyes.

He has been played before, has been hurt, manipulated, who knows what else.

She wants to find out, or at least help.

“You can keep your bow and arrows with you at all times,” she offers loudly at last, eliciting surprise from both of her companions in the forest. Before Dig can complain, she tilts her head to the side, pursing her lips at Oliver until he finally gives up fighting back and gives just one slight nod in consent.

* * *

It isn’t easy and the story sure isn’t happy.

Castaway lost at sea over a decade ago, just a teen with no family and barely memories of the life from before he left. They all died in the ship-wreck, he thinks, doesn’t bear to think less alone say as much.

What came after he remembers, vividly. A crazy tale of an old man and then a big australian fellow raising him as their own family, teaching him how to fight, how to live, how to survive in an island that was filled with so many more terrors she could’ve imagined.

The scars she sees in his body, once he stops hiding that part of him from her, are harsh proofs of his tales, that finally convince Diggle that he’s one of his own. Just a human, doing anything he could to survive.

Oliver claims the island has been deserted for the last few years, human solitude being a welcomed state after the long up-hill battle. That explains his apprehension of people now, letting others in, having a babbling blonde fill his ears after years of near-silence.

It takes some time for him to get used to the little things, commodities and rarities of no longer being just himself, an island, adrift. But he does step by step grow into a new version of himself, cleaner, nicer, a little less stoic, but just as alert and on guard as Dig’s ever been.

Not quite a soldier, but a warrior, with a heart of gold still beating strongly beneath her palm; its pace quickening the more their lingering glances last as the time passes, the less distance they keep between them, up to the point of not holding themselves back anymore.

For he’s a mystery, shades of his life still uncovered and probably will remain so for good; yet in many ways she knows him to the core, gets to shine a light to parts of himself he doesn’t even see anymore.

And in that day months later when she steps back into a plane to get them back home, her mystery goes right there with her; clutching her hand, holding her gaze, saying her name that holds much more meanings now, and jumping into tomorrow’s mysteries,  _together_.

**Author's Note:**

> _Thanks for reading!_
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> Hope it was of your liking. If so, would you be so kind as to let me know somehow, through kudos, bookmarks, or especially comments? :)  
> Just a few words with your reaction, a line or moment you enjoyed, or simply a general appreciation would mean a lot.
> 
> xo, Lucy


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